Snow Ice and Gunpowder
by oblivioncas
Summary: Michael comes to an impasse about Trevor that leaves the both of them struggling to fix their forgotten partnership. Out in the desert, though, Michael finally understands who Trevor Philips really is. ((i may add on to this later))


The two of them rounded a corner, screeching and laughing breathlessly, sirens fading out in the distance. The gun Michael's holding feels good in his jittery hands, and the money in his back pocket feels even greater. Trevor glances over at him, legs gliding over the hot pavement.

"We," he shouts, downright giggling, "are fucking _back_ , Mikey!"

Michael laughs hard, like the concept of happiness hasn't grasped him in years. His broad smile matches the one plastered across T's face. Trevor's left arm swiftly grabs his back and shoves him into a small alley. They're silent, the little space between them filled with their stuttering lungs.

He feels good. He feels good. He feels good. He feels… Drained. Completely empty.

Like suddenly everything he's done thus far to remedy his relationship with Trevor has been done in vain. And here, right now- this is just another elaborate distraction.

Looking into T's exhilarated brown eyes, instead of seeing utter devoutness and loyalty, there's just a mask of nostalgia; a fantasy of what could've been. It's irrefutable, really, that the mistakes Michael's made in his past can't be made up with so much as coming back, just being _there_ for his lifelong friend. No, it goes much deeper than that. Something dark and repressed has slithered its way into the hole in Trevor's heart.

Abandonment, fear, and distrust has sunk its rotten teeth into T's head, and it's surprising that he doesn't run the other way when Michael's around. There's just no solution to this complex problem; Trevor or Amanda, Amanda or Trevor. T's heart has been howling since day one, screaming out ever since M took a bullet to his chest and sprawled out on the bloodied snow.

There's a gaping hole in Trevor Philips' heart, and it will forever be Michael-shaped.

He wished he had never heard Trevor's pounding cries to be killed ringing loud in his ears that day. He wished that a bullet truly tore its way under his ribs, thick blood choking his throat and spilling out of the wound. M has been gone for a long time, and nothing will change that. Trevor's face once held immeasurable vulnerability; cockiness in his stance and eyes full of fire.

Now, the person whom he loved so much is nothing short of broken. One minor touch would shatter him- crack open the healing wound, let everything out before he could stop it. If he could go back, he would pick Trevor. He would always pick Trevor.

As Michael tucks his gun back into its holster, he wants to reach out to T, touch him, kiss him even, try to care for him the only way he knows how. He's at lost for what to do, what to say. There is nothing that can convey the sheer loss, the agony, and depression that Trevor went through, self-hatred buried into his skin.

He breathes out lightly; eyes panning up to scan Trevor's fleeting expression. He stares up into those wild eyes and speaks.

"I'm sorry." he says gently.

It's a floundering attempt to find the right words, a stupid few words he hoped could carry its weight. He doesn't know what he expected from Trevor from saying this. The most natural reaction would be a swift punch in the jaw. But instead, T froze, blinking up at M.

"Don't. Just don't you fucking lie to me." he whispered coldly, jaw tensing up.

"I'm… I'm not. I'm so sorry. For everything." Michael sighed.

"Fucking shut up." Trevor growled out, fingers flexing into a fist.

"I'm sorry." Michael pleaded again.

Trevor roared, grabbing M by the shoulder and slamming him into the ground. He jumped on top of his dazed body, fist held high. T quickly balled M's shirt into his hand and forcefully pulled him up to face him.

"How are you supposed to be sorry when I don't know if you'll be here tomorrow?" Trevor huffed, breathing heavily.

"I'm sorry Trevor." Michael gasped, the impact of his fall knocking the wind out of him.

"The lies! How do you fucking _do_ it, man?" Trevor shouted, planting a fist straight M's jaw.

Trevor punched and screamed, the taste of iron seeping and mixing with the bile in Michael's mouth. "T, I…," Trevor socked him in the face again, I love you."

Trevor stopped momentarily, and through Michael's one good eye he saw how his fist faltered, his eyes losing that predatory look and instead taking up a mixture of pain and disbelief. In the suddenly chilled air, time stood still; the background bleeding out until they were the only ones left. Peering up at the blood flecked on Trevor's face, he thought he was going to kiss him.

The hand twisted in Michael's shirt loosened, the both of them lost for words. Mikey offered him a smile, blood dribbling down his cracked lips. Trevor stumbled back from him, wobbly getting to his feet and turning on his heel, sprinting out of the alley and away from Michael's bruised body. M reached out for him, raising a shaky arm, searching for something he didn't even know of. His friend was long gone though, lone silhouette swallowed by the dusty horizon.

After a while of roasting silently in the Alamo Sea heat, Michael pushed himself to his feet. Leaning his hands heavily on his legs, he bent over spat the blood in his mouth onto the pavement. He dragged his dirty fingers along hips lips, swiping off the excess blood.

"Trevor…" he stated to himself, trying to decide if he had made the right the choice or not. It was obvious that Trevor had feelings for him as well, even decades back when they were notorious running partners. It was the way T let his fingers linger a bit too long while passing M a drink. The way he stared at Michael, both their cheeks flushed red with the adrenaline of a successful score.

They had rules though; unspoken ones about never letting Trevor get too close to him. These rules were never discussed aloud, and even after all these still stood. The scene was so familiar, Michael was afraid that he'd turn a corner and see the two of them, 25 years old- laughing and touching indiscriminately, their faces young and handsome.

Michael scrounged around in his shorts pocket until he found his phone and pulled it out, surprised that it wasn't shattered, and pulled it out. He paused; thumb hovering over Trevor's number. He sucked in a shallow breath and gingerly tapped the button. It rang once. Twice. Three times, before it was dropped.

"Dammit, T." Michael muttered out to the dust.

M tried again, praying to whatever god was listening for Trevor to pick up the damn phone. It rang once, twice, and then- there was a click.

Struggling to hear, there was audible ragged breathing on the other end. "…Hey? You there?" Michael said into the receiver.

"Don't leave me. Don't run away ever again." Trevor stuttered.

"I won't. I swear to god, I won't." Michael breathed, hoping that the other man could recognize that this time, he was truly not lying.

"Where are you?" M asked Trevor.

"I'm… out." the line went dead.

Michael ended up walking back to the trailer, cops long gone, and was disappointed to have found it empty. He strolled over to the groaning refrigerator and opened it, wrapping his hand around the greasy metal handle. His fingers quickly grabbed the neck of a beer and slammed the door, sitting down on the decimated sofa behind him. M sat there in the shadows alone, waiting for Trevor's arrival.

Sometime later though, he fell asleep, lulled by cicadas and the breeze whistling nearby. A faint rustling from outside eventually woke Michael from his slumber, and as he groggily looked for the time, he saw that it was nearly 11. M, half awake, stumbled to his feet and opened the crushed tin door. Trevor was sitting still, faint white light from the moon bathing his body. Michael squinted his eyes in the dark, and saw the saw that he wasn't wearing a shirt.

M sauntered over, collapsing onto the empty space next to his best friend. Trevor didn't even look up, a cigarette surprisingly dangling between his lips. The two of them sat quietly, their knees touching. For a moment, they looked out at the humid night, silent. Michael eyed T's physique for a moment, glancing over his multiple tattoos. Something caught his eye, though.

Amidst the various scars and scratches Trevor got from heavy drug use and a particularly dangerous lifestyle, there was one that stood out. It was a thick, raised scar in the middle of his sternum, fitting the exact width of a blade.

"What's that?" he asked, tilting his head and pointing a finger at the scar. "'s nothing." Trevor responded blankly, but Michael couldn't help how he turned away from M's searching face. "…T." Michael muttered anxiously.

"I said it was fucking nothing!" Trevor bit out, taking a slow drag of the cigarette perched in his fingertips. They sat there, Michael's lips floundering pathetically, waiting for Trevor's hushed words to leave his open mouth.

"Okay, fuck off; I shove a knife into my chest a couple years back. Nothing major." Trevor announced, flicking the cig into the dirt. Michael faltered, pinching the bridge of his nose with two shaking fingers.

"Why'd you do it." he blinked, stunned,

Silence. It was deafening, the unspoken words kept hanging in the heavy, choking air.

"I wanted to see you," Trevor finally answered, lifting his head and gesturing to the sky, "I wanted to see an old friend, for the last time."

"I… I thought you didn't smoke." Michael said weakly, more of a statement of fact than a question. "I thought you were dead." Trevor whispered, turning his face, yellow eyes boring straight into his skull. M inhaled sharply, nodding in consideration.

He looked over, blue eyes meeting yellow, and sighed. "I should've," he breathed," I should've never done that to you." "Fucking A' right, Mikey." T murmured into the shadowy haze between them.

Coyotes howled in the near distance, signaling the arrival the stars. They glided across the bruised purple sky, it quickly turning to dark hues of blue and black. Michael absently fumbled with his fingers, sitting quietly in the blackness; distraught face thankfully sheltered by the night. Trevor exhaled, shifting his weight closer to M, resting his cheek on his shoulder.

Michael stiffened, and for the second time that day, time stopped abruptly. They were no longer trapped on a stained couch in a sandy, drug-lover's paradise, but where instead in North Yankton. Perfect white snow flitted aimlessly around the two of them, T and M glued for warmth. They were still young of untamed bravado, youth gracing their faces.

Michael gave up his instinct to run; run away from Trevor out of some habitual fear. He leaned his head into Trevor's, not caring when T laced their fingers together. They promptly fell asleep like this, wrapped up in each other, the desert singing a somber lullaby.

M was the first to wake up, yawning and stretching his achy limbs. Looking down, he wasn't very surprised to see T curled up in his lap, drool escaping his partially-opened lips. But it was fairly unusual to see him actually _sleep_ for once, especially when he wasn't completely smashed out of his mind, drugs and alcohol slowing that rushing brain of his.

T snored peacefully, shifting his lanky body until his head was facing Michael's. One of his hands slithered underneath his shirt, resting on the round of his stomach. Trevor's brown eyes flashed open and a cheeky grin crossed his teeth.

"You're still a bit chubby aren't ya, pork chop?" he beamed. "Get off of me, you dick." Michael laughed back. "Oh, I'll get you off, Mikey-" he growled.

"Morning, Trevor!" Ron shouted, shakily holding a cup of coffee.

"WHAT the fuck, RONALD!" Trevor screeched, leaping off of Michael's lap and pressing his weight into the trailer's cracked railing. "What do you think you're _doing_?" Trevor shouted at him.

Rushing down the rickety stairs, T emerged into the morning heat, his back flexing with the motion. He promptly swiped the steaming mug out of Ron's quivering hand and screamed, slamming it into the ground like it was a football. Ron stumbled back, nervously fidgeting with his glasses.

"O-oh, sorry Boss…" Ron mumbled, making a point to not look at Michael's amused expression.

"RON, if you ever do that again, I'll cut off your arm and make Wade eat IT!" Trevor roared, pointing an accusatory finger in the poor man's direction.

"Wha?" Wade wandered into the group, seemingly appearing from nowhere.

"Hhhhh fuck off, both of you!" T yelled, and his friends scattered like city pigeons.

Michael laughed, deep and heartily, clapping his hands together. Trevor turned his head towards him, frowning face quickly turning into a huge smile. "Ah, Trevor Philips, terrorizing druggies since '93." M huffed.

"Shut up, you fat turd." Trevor responded, falling back into the empty seat next to Michael. Trevor looked around for a moment, confusion sparking on his face. "Where's my coffee." he said dumbly.

Michael never laughed harder in his entire life.

Maybe, maybe he could salvage whatever _this_ thing was. Michael internal chastised himself for being so blinded by his hatred- no, confusion- of Trevor. Years will go by and he will still never understand why he hated T for being everything he despised in himself, but now it was easy to just accept it; go along with Trevor's yelling and albeit crude jokes because that's just who he _is_.

M was a scared, stupid kid with a young family, and there are days he still wished he never thought that the only way out was to get rid of the first real friend he's ever had. There are days where he wanted Trevor to never meet him in the first place, because Michael undeniably ruined him. But in reality, Trevor would always, always go back to Michael no matter what.

And looking at Trevor struggle to make downright poisonous coffee in his broken coffee maker made him feel something better than the depression he had just laying around his pool.

He felt alright.

He then thought about Amanda, how awful she would've taken this entire situation. M could practically hear her yelling at him. "I'm done with your middle life crisis, Michael. Most guys dye their hair, go to the gym more, get plastic surgery… But you, _you_ go on killing sprees, rob banks, and fuck your _psychotic_ best friend!" she would scream.

But the really funny thing is that that's exactly what she's said to him in the past. Michael loves Amanda, truly does with an almost frightening intensity, but she wouldn't be able to understand Trevor, and a part of Michael is almost glad that she doesn't.

The three of them; Amanda, him, and T- as odd of a 'thing' they all are, they'll get through it, one way or another.

Even if that means he'll be sleeping on the couch for the rest of his life.


End file.
